Ready to Fly
by ShinyShiny9
Summary: Captured by the Overlord, injured and barely able to move, alone and in need of guidance - these are the times you begin to wonder how much farther you can make it. And often enough, these are the times you surprise yourself with just how well you can fly . . . Two-shot about Lloyd's capture by the Overlord, by request!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi all! Guest, 4nn4, if you're out there, this is the story about Lloyd you requested! Sorry it took so long; once I figured out how to make it work, it suddenly took root and bloomed until it became a two-shot. Hope it doesn't disappoint! I wanted to focus a little more on the before and after of Lloyd's capture, since we know how the actual scene goes in Episode 30. ^_^''**

**Oh, and I seriously hope I'm spelling the birds' names right. What in the world are they? Rafters? Raptures? Raftures? I went with Raftures, but let me know if that's wrong. The birds just begged to be mentioned, though. I mean, why was the Rafture _father_ guarding the nest? In almost all bird species, either both parents or only the mother take care of the young. So then I said, "Aha! Metaphor!"**

**And then this happened. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ninjago!**

* * *

Hiroshi's Labyrinth was not a fun place. Not by any possible interpretation of the word. There were masses of ferns on the ground, but that was the least of it. In terms of safety, you would be much better served to look out for the matted tangles of long, slimy vines covered with thorns, or the random marshy bits that sucked at your feet and sent you sprawling if you weren't careful, or the half-foot mosquitos. No joke; Garmadon had snatched a buzzing insect from midair, very ceremoniously pulled out a pocket ruler, and measured a seven-inch wingspan.

Besides the ground hazards, the air was thick, hot, and humid, reluctant even to seep into your lungs. Moisture dripped from the trees overhead, catching you between the shoulderblades or in the eye when you least expected it—like a more diffuse version of Chinese water torture. The conditions were enough to make anyone a little grumpy.

Lloyd, disentangling his foot from a vine that seemed bent on live prey, found himself biting back an annoyed sigh.

"How _anyone_ got through this jungle is beyond me."

"Hiroshi's Labyrinth," said Garmadon reflectively (and somewhat redundantly). "Legend has it no one has escaped its deadly maze, except for Hiroshi himself. But the maze is no match for your powers—this is the perfect place to hide from the Overlord's clutches."

"Hide," grumbled Lloyd, punching aside a fern branch. "That's all I ever seem to do!"

Garmadon gave him a warning look.

"Your golden power only strengthens his cause. We must not lose sight—"

"But I miss my _friends._ What good is being all-powerful if I can't have any fun?" protested Lloyd, realizing subconsciously that he sounded pretty whiny, but too fed up to care.

Now it was Garmadon's turn to sigh wearily. He could've sworn they'd had this talk before . . .

"Lloyd, the golden power needs to be protected, honored. Evil forces will seek it, try to take it for their own. It seduces! Even your friends may one day covet it."

"My friends would never hurt me," retorted Lloyd, miffed. He trusted his fellow-ninjas with his life, he was not about to mistrust them with his abilities.

"He who holds the power has a tremendous obligation," replied Garmadon sternly. "You must be prepared to handle this journey _alone_." His tone softened. "Even without me, one day."

"Yeah," said Lloyd, looking away to hide his falling face. "I know."

"Keep your chin up, son," said Garmadon more gently, putting a hand on Lloyd's shoulder. "Legend also states, there is a jewel inside the maze—the most beautiful oasis that no one has ever seen before. Perhaps we will be the first."

Lloyd shook his head disbelievingly as his father turned and continued onwards.

"And that's supposed to be compensation? I don't like this trade."

Garmadon chuckled drily and kept going. Lloyd followed after him, forcing a pained smile. Truth be told, it was hard to imagine—being all alone again someday. Somehow he had the feeling it would be even worse than his time alone as a little kid—now he'd tasted what it was like to have friends and a family, and losing that again would hurt even more.

"How do I know I'll be ready?" he asked suddenly. Garmadon raised an eyebrow.

"When I'm alone, I mean," clarified Lloyd, twiddling a fern frond awkwardly. "What if I can't do it?"

Garmadon was silent for a moment, pushing ahead through the thick ground cover. Lloyd was starting to think he wasn't going to answer, but eventually he spoke.

"You remember that Rafture youngling?"

Lloyd chuckled sheepishly. How could he not? He'd nearly gotten them both killed trying to save the young bird from falling out of its cliffside nest, and in the end it turned out it could fly just fine. Little feathery troll.

"That little bird didn't seem like he could fly, did he?" continued Garmadon. Lloyd shook his head.

"Nah, I thought for sure he'd never be able to stay up."

"But then he fell, and it turned out he really could fly after all. That's how it often is, growing up—one day you just get tossed out into the void, and you suddenly find you can fly better than you ever imagined."

"You think?" said Lloyd, venturing a smile.

"I can't guarantee it, son. But I think you'll do fine—and it is a long way into the future, you know. Focus on today." He smirked slightly. "But do try to grow up with a better temper than that Rafture father."

Lloyd laughed in spite of himself.

* * *

It had all happened so—_so_—fast. No warning. No head start. No "ready or not, here we come." One minute Garmadon and Lloyd had just stepped into the legendary oasis of Hiroshi's Labyrinth—ten minutes later, Lloyd was bound tightly on the back of the Mech Dragon, his powers disabled, and his father was—

No. Nonono, don't go there. Don't think that. He couldn't afford to let his captors see any weakness. Bad enough that he had almost cried once, when he saw his father fall from the Mech Dragon and hit the water; he couldn't let them think he was so easy to break. It had happened too suddenly, it had caught him in the gut before he could brace for it, ripped away all his defenses. But he had to be strong now, had to swallow until the tightness in his throat and the stinging in his eyes melted away.

Best to keep busy. Best to plan how to get out of this mess.

He wiggled against his bonds briefly, but soon gave up. Whatever this little robotic serpent was, its hold was irreversibly tight. Even when he attempted to relax his body and slip out of its coils the way the other ninja had taught him, it did no good—the robot's long segmented body merely tightened to keep his arms firmly pinned to his sides. Where did Pythor _get_ this kind of technology?

Pythor. Lloyd cast him a despising look. He could _not_ believe that he had once called this monster of a snake his friend. It didn't even last a full two days, true, but he had still in his childish stupidity mistaken the Anacondrai for someone he could trust. Now here was the scourge of Ninjago, about to bring down raging doom in the form of the Overlord, and Lloyd could thank himself for releasing that snake in the first place. Friends? _No._

So then, where to get allies . . . Lloyd ran through the list chronologically. Sensei Wu? Nope. He was standing right behind Lloyd now, half-man half-metal, surveying the ocean below with a cold, blank eye. His brain had been completely taken over by the Overlord's tech—it was _him_ who had pushed Garmadon down to his—

_Nonono_. Change the subject. But no, Sensei Wu was no longer an ally . . .

The other ninja, and Nya? His only source of communication with them was the falcon, and the falcon was perched on Pythor's shoulder right now. Lloyd eyed it, feeling slightly sick; he couldn't believe Zane's faithful avian companion had been corrupted too, so easily. Ten to one the falcon had played some role in giving away Lloyd's location to the enemy.

So, no way to contact his friends. Misako? Back at the monastery . . . no way to contact her either. And his dad? Dead.

Oh, so now he'd gotten around to that thought. He gulped and pushed it away hastily, trying to treat it as just another fact of the matter, scrabbling for anyone else he could reach. There was nobody. Everyone he knew was either out of contact range or now an enemy. So that meant . . . Lloyd's mouth went dry. He was entirely on his own now.

For a second he almost panicked. Then he realized there was absolutely no space for panicking in this kind of situation, and drew in his breath slowly. Steady, steady. So the time had come a little early—he was out in the void already, and he would have to fly on his own now. That or die, and leave Ninjago to its doom. Not an option.

Pythor's thoughts seemed to be following a similar course.

"You're very quiet," he remarked hoarsely, with a twistedly pleasant smile. "Something the matter, old chum?"

Lloyd merely glanced at him dismissively, acting as if he had better things on his mind.

"Oh, come now. No need to be so cold," rasped Pythor, and gave a hacking chuckle. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the good old days? After all, you are among friends now."

Lloyd bit his tongue. He would _not_ give this psychopath the satisfaction of an answer.

"Oh, but of course, I forgot," continued Pythor, stroking the falcon's head off-handedly. "I suppose you must still be in shock after the . . . tragic loss of your father. My deepest condolences. Unfortunately—wisely, but unfortunately—the Overlord has a policy of no collaterals left alive. You never know when they'll circle back to bite you."

Lloyd continued to stare firmly at the setting sun, feeling the glaring red semicircle burning into the backs of his eyes, leaving a glowing green afterimage every time he blinked.

"Chin up, friend," Pythor rasped, shrugging. "You can comfort yourself with the knowledge it was not your fault, at least."

Lloyd bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood; it was all he could do not to lash out. He knew what Pythor was implying. It _was_ his fault. His fault, for not listening. His fault, for hesitating one time too many. His fault, for still depending too much on his father's guidance, letting him be used as a pawn to control him.

But there was nothing he could do about that now. All he could do was try to make up for it. Now was the time to be an adult, not the bratty little kid you could bait into losing his temper.

Pythor surveyed the youngster's proud, emotionless expression for a moment.

"You have grown even more than I expected," he remarked, raising an eyebrow. "I do hope that very admirable maturity remains in place once we begin the draining procedure. It suits you."

Lloyd gave a cross between a snort and a sigh. Sometimes having clamps for hands had its limitations.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Garmadon was not dead. That said, though, his "alive" could definitely use some work. The adrenaline that had brought him to the ocean's surface and numbed his sense of pain was starting to subside, his entire right side was beginning to cry out with every move he made, and he was still nowhere near any cliff low enough for him to pull himself out of the water. He wasn't sure how much farther he could swim.

Eventually he came across a section of cliff that, while still quite high, had convenient ledges and boulders forming an extremely rough ladder to the top. He would have to gamble on this one. Swimming over, he grabbed the lowest rock and attempted to pull himself up out of the water.

It _hurt_. He may not be fully dead, but one does not simply fall fifty feet, hit the water sideways, and walk off unscathed. He had definitely splintered a few ribs back there, and if none of his internal organs were rearranged it was a sheer miracle. Something seemed to be wrong with his right wrist, too. Still, still—not bad, after a fall that had been intended to kill him.

Gritting his teeth, Garmadon continued to haul himself up slowly, calculating each move before making it. At last, with one final grip and lift, he hoisted himself over the top of the cliff and collapsed on level ground, fireworks sparking across his vision. Safe; he'd made it.

After a while he rolled over and sat up ever so gingerly, taking count of his ribs. He was in no condition to walk just now, let alone travel extensively, but he would have to heal quickly if he was going to find Lloyd. Grabbing a nearby stick, he ripped a strip of fabric from his jacket and began to bind his damaged wrist. Lloyd would make it—he had faith in his son—but he still had to find him as soon as possible. He smiled bitterly; while he was at it, he had a couple of things to tell that Overlord as well. "Over the side!" was _his_ line, thank you very _much._

Suddenly a hoarse squawking sound from behind him caught his attention. Carefully he turned around and squinted through the gathering twilight. Spotting the source of the noise, he groaned under his breath—of all the creatures to meet at random out here! Angry Bird Senior and Flappy Bird Junior.

But indeed, it was the Rafture youngling and its father—most noticeably its father. The massive bird was lying with its wings spread wide on the ground, screeching feebly at its offspring. The youngling itself was nudging and pecking persistently at its father's side, chirping plaintively. Something was wrong.

Garmadon squinted harder, taking in the angle of the larger bird's wings. The left one was lying limp, quivering slightly; Garmadon's stomach tightened when he suddenly saw the arrowhead sticking up from the feathers right by the body.

So, that was what had happened. What with the Ninjago-wide power outage, some bored idiots must have decided it would be cool to do some old-fashioned bow-and-arrow hunting. Having no experience, they probably shot the bird in the wing instead of the heart, allowing it to flop painfully through the air for a while longer instead of plummeting immediately. Then they had apparently lacked the brains and/or consciences to follow the bird till it fell and put it out of its misery. _Morons._ Garmadon bore little to no affection for the Rafture father—it had almost killed him, after all—but leaving it to a slow, agonizing death by starvation was still cruel.

He turned away, his jaw set. It was sad, but it was the harsh reality of the world. With an arrow stuck through the base of its wing, that bird would never be able to fly again. Luckily the little one already knew how to fly; it would do fine on its own.

The insistent peeping came again, and despite his efforts not to look Garmadon still saw little Flappy Bird, still tugging at his father's neck feathers, flailing his wings determinedly as he strained to lift its father up. Ludicrous; the father bird must have been at least twenty times his size, and he wasn't going to get up any time soon. The older bird's head was now resting listlessly on the ground, eyes glazed with resignation, occasionally roving upwards to glance wearily at his panicking son. The little one didn't understand. He didn't understand why his father wouldn't get up.

_He'll be fine_, Garmadon told himself sternly. _He'll give up and move on eventually, and he'll be fine on his own. He knows how to fly_.

But he knew he was deluding himself. The youngster might have been able to fly on his own all right . . . but nobody had yet taught him how to hunt. Kind of . . . kind of like Lloyd wasn't quite ready to . . .

He snuck another glance over. Little Flappy Bird had given up by now, and was gazing at his father silently. His disproportionate beak hung open slightly, and his tiny ugly face wore an almost human expression, lost and pleading, wishing this nightmare would go away and his father would just be all right.

Garmadon groaned. He'd seen that face before . . .

But then, what to do? Approaching a full-grown Rafture with young was pure madness. Approaching an injured one in pain bordered on lunacy. Approaching a full-grown, injured Rafture, in pain, with young, to do an even more painful procedure on it, when you yourself could barely move, and when the bird no doubt remembered you as an earlier threat . . . you'd better get yourself _committed._

Garmadon shut his eyes and sighed, making up his mind. Well, better hand in his sanity card.


	2. Chapter 2

Wherever the Overlord was trying to take Lloyd, it was pretty far off. Night had fallen long ago, and the Mech Dragon was still flying over the ocean, its enormous metal wings thudding through the air. Pythor and Tech Wu were asleep. The Overlord was up to who knew what; he was presumably cased in the head of the Mech Dragon and wasn't too aware of what was going on in back.

Lloyd was still trying to keep his mind busy, even as sleepiness started to crawl over him. He was running out of thoughts . . . he'd planned every possible plan, reviewed seemingly every ninja technique he'd ever learned, gone over them all again, even started reciting his multiplication tables and cheesy dialogue from that soap opera Nya thought nobody knew she watched. As exhaustion took over, it was getting harder and harder to keep his thoughts away from that one _particular_ thought . . .

There was a soft rustle of wings, and a sudden chirrup right by his ear. Lloyd turned his head far enough to see the falcon, which had swooped from Pythor's shoulder to land on his.

"Get away, would you?" he muttered.

The falcon rubbed its head against him, keening sadly. Lloyd caught sight of a long, ugly "scar" in its feathers, with a glint of welded metal underneath. His eyes widened. So, the falcon had been tampered with.

"Did they capture you, boy?" he whispered. The bird hung its head in shame, and Lloyd felt his resentment towards it ebbing away. The poor critter had probably been struggling against Pythor's control all this time. He would have stroked its head soothingly, but his arms were still bound.

This seemed to be on the falcon's mind too. Carefully, clawed-foot after clawed-foot, it sidestepped down Lloyd's arm and began to study the mechanical snake wrapped around his body. Then it carefully worked its beak around one of the segments and began to tug.

Lloyd's heart leaped.

"That's it, boy! Pull!" he encouraged, struggling to keep his voice at a whisper. He barely noticed the bird's claws digging into his arm as it strained valiantly, its head thrashing back and forth. With one last mighty yank, the joint between two of the snake's segments snapped, and the bonds loosened.

Lloyd could have whooped out loud. Before he could even move to throw off the restraints, however, there was a sudden metallic hiss. The broken ends of the snake's body began to spark oddly, then abruptly snapped back together and glowed bright orange, fizzing as they self-repaired. The head of the robo-snake swung up, its tongue flickering angrily two millimeters from Lloyd's face. It was not happy.

"You—" Lloyd gritted his teeth. No matter how much he struggled, though, the snake did not loosen its grip; it only began to squeeze tighter, constricting more and more until he could barely breathe. Just when he was sure it was going to crush his insides to a pulp, it relaxed—ever so very _slightly_. Just enough so he could still suck a little air into his lungs.

The falcon had been watching and fluttering anxiously all throughout this. Now it began to tug at one of the snake's segments again, hoping to have better luck this time. The snake, however, began to snap angrily wherever the bird tried to land, its sharp metal teeth scraping against the falcon's metal body. Bolts of electricity danced along its coils, trying to discourage the bird from touching it.

"Cut it out!" hissed Lloyd at last, shaking his head frantically. "You're going to get us both fried!"

The falcon looked at him despairingly, its eyes asking a silent question.

"I know you tried," murmured Lloyd. "But it's not going to work."

The falcon wailed softly in defeat and nuzzled against Lloyd's head, making a barely audible chirping sound.

Lloyd drew in his breath slowly and let it out. That brief spark of hope had gone out so quickly it was ridiculous, but it had succeeded in jolting his mind out of its dogged factual track. He quickly realized this may have been a mistake. Ever since being captured, he'd shifted into a kind of numbly robotic survival mode; now the numbness collapsed into a cold, bitter ache, annihilating all the determination he'd so carefully built up.

It hit him uncalled-for, bringing a wash of despair: he was never going to see his father again. For hours he'd been fighting that reality, but now it took hold firmly and pummeled him with everything it had. He'd never even had a chance to say goodbye . . .

Lloyd drew his knees up to his chin and glanced up at the star-riddled sky. He might have known this stage would come, but at least the enemy wasn't awake to exploit it. Best to sink himself into it, let it run its course, and be ready for action again when the time came. So . . .

"Dad?" he whispered, so softly he barely heard it himself. "Are you out there? . . . I just wanted to say I'm sorry. It was my fault, but—but I promise I'll do better—if there's any way, _any_ way I can make this right, I will."

Silence, except for the steady thud of the Mech Dragon's wings, and the intermingled sighs of his sleeping enemies' breaths and the waves below.

"Guess the time came a little sooner than you thought, huh?" continued Lloyd, smiling ruefully. "Don't worry, I'll make it, just like you said. Still miss you . . . though . . . "

Entirely without an excuse, the stars blurred and disappeared. He closed his eyes hastily. They were flying pretty low over the ocean, and the waves were sort of a little choppy; it was just sea spray blowing into his face. Yeah . . . yeah. He'd stick with that story.

* * *

Back at the sea's edge, Garmadon was ever so slowly inching towards the Rafture father, his teeth set against the shreds of pain that ripped through his ribs every time he moved. The bird was watching him narrowly, motionless. The youngling was hidden behind his good wing, occasionally poking his little head out to peer anxiously at the approaching human.

To Garmadon's surprise, he got within arm's length of the bird without any reaction. One last shift, and he was right next to the massive wingspan, even close enough to feel the bird's breath fluttering over him. Judging by how rapidly that was happening, the Rafture was as tense as he was.

Well, next step. No guarantee this wouldn't break the stalemate and bring the iron beak crashing down, but hey . . .

Garmadon took a deep breath and spoke, softly.

"I'm going to try helping you."

The narrow head jerked back, and a scratchy hiss rattled up from the back of the bird's throat, sending a clear warning.

"It's going to hurt," continued Garmadon, knowing the Rafture wouldn't understand him but hoping his soothing tone would get across. "But it will help you get better."

The glittering avian eyes still roved over him grimly, watching his every move. Ever so slowly, Garmadon reached out and grasped the shaft of the arrow, just beneath the arrowhead. He studied the situation; there was no way he could push the arrowhead out the way it came, and there were definitely feathers on the tail end of the arrow, so no pulling it out the other way either. That left only one option.

Sighing, Garmadon fumbled in his pockets until he found what he was looking for: his jackknife. Pulling it out, he flicked open the blade with some difficulty and poured out altogether too large a quantity of seawater. Curses, it was going to rust at this rate.

He considered for a moment before pulling himself closer, so that he was practically lying on top of the Rafture's wing. Rolling onto his stomach, he grabbed the edge of the wing and hung on as the Rafture began to struggle, squalling furiously. The huge beak came slicing through the air, almost audibly whistling—but it missed, just barely. By some miracle, Garmadon was far enough behind the bird's head that it couldn't reach him, at least not with any force behind its peck. It tried a few more times, striking breathtakingly close to the man's limbs. Then it twisted its head around, clamped its beak over the edge of Garmadon's jacket, and tugged furiously. Garmadon poked it back with the blunt end of the pocketknife, muttering things highly unbecoming to someone who had taken an oath of peace.

At last the Rafture stopped struggling and retreated slightly, still eyeing Garmadon through the darkness. It seemed to have resigned itself to its fate, at least momentarily. Loosening his death grip on the bird's wing, Garmadon cautiously turned his attention to the arrow. He began to scrape the knife's blade across the shaft, bracing it with his other hand so it wouldn't wiggle too much in the wound. All the same, the Rafture gave a scream of pain and started to thrash and buck wildly again, its free wing beating the ground. Garmadon again clung to its wing, waiting for it to wear itself out. Then he resumed the operation.

It was long and laborious work. The arrow seemed ridiculously thick, and his knife ridiculously dull. The bird continued to struggle in protest every now and then, although mercifully it kept still a majority of the time. At last, only a few splinters of wood remained of the arrow shaft, and Garmadon managed to break it in half. Pocketing the end with the arrowhead, he carefully worked his hand underneath the Rafture's wing until he felt the tail end of the arrow, slimy with blood. He took a deep breath.

"This is going to hurt worse than you've ever felt before," he warned the bird darkly. "But it's got to come out."

Before the Rafture could even tense at the sound of his voice, Garmadon steeled himself and yanked the arrow out, rolling swiftly away as he did so. This time the bird's agonized scream rang so loudly it echoed, rolling faintly back four or five times, even though there were no nearby surfaces for it to echo from. Garmadon pulled himself farther away, still gripping his jackknife, and watched as the Rafture flopped and thrashed across the ground, its long neck writhing wildly.

At long last, however, the enormous bird stopped struggling and lay still. Garmadon noted with satisfaction that it was moving both its wings now, although it was still heavily favoring its good wing. A few days, and it should heal up enough to fly again.

"I would say that you'd better appreciate it, but I know you don't," he remarked drily, wiping his hands and knife clean on the grass. "So you can at least show your gratitude by not pecking me to death while I'm asleep. You're lucky you have a son who reminds me of my own, you know that?"

The Rafture eyed him warily, but made no move to retreat farther away. Garmadon sincerely hoped it wouldn't come closer either, especially not if its intention was to eviscerate him. He calculated it must be three or four AM, and he needed to sleep.

"You raise that youngster right, you hear me?" he warned humorously, settling down to rest as the Rafture continued to eye him. "I mean it. I've learned some creative punishments back in my day, and just because I've taken an oath of peace does _not_ mean I've forgotten them. So if I hear that youngling of yours grew up to be a bird hoodlum, you know who's coming after you."

The Rafture hissed at him petulantly, turning away. Chuckling, Garmadon laid down his head and closed his eyes. He had expected to have trouble falling asleep, what with the stabbing ache in all his sides, but he drifted off immediately.

It was still dark when he was suddenly awoken—he wasn't sure by what, but he knew something wasn't right. Immediately alert, he tried to sit up—and quickly abandoned that proposal when a streak of fire shot through his muscles. Blimey, he hurt even worse than before. Wrestling a desperate Rafture can do that to a person.

Suddenly a long, low howl came winding out from the nearby jungle. Garmadon's heart sank; he had forgotten about the jungle wolves. They were a lean, mean bunch, and they would no doubt welcome a decent meal. And conveniently incapacitated, too!

Drawing in his breath resignedly, Garmadon pulled out his jackknife again, and the broken arrow. The idea of fighting off a pack of hungry jungle wolves with these two puny weapons and no mobility was so ridiculous it would have been funny, were it not so potentially tragic. He felt gingerly along the jagged shaft of the arrow, calculating how many jabs he could make before it broke.

The howl came again, much closer this time. A pack of dark, loping shapes broke from the darker outskirts of the jungle, slinking steadily closer. Garmadon watched, clutching the handle of his jackknife, as the pack split in two, encircling him with snarling shadows. He could hear the licking of chops already, and see glowing yellowish eyes glinting behind long, cruel muzzles. They were mostly trained on him.

Suddenly there was an ear-piercing screech, which did wonders for Garmadon's already tightly-stretched nerves. Whirling his glance in that direction, he saw an enormous bird-shaped shadow rearing up from the ground, its wings spread wide. A thundering clap of feathers beating the air, a crack of beak against bone, a pained yelp and desperate scrabbling.

The commotion carried on for a good forty seconds, then the jungle wolves evidently decided things were going badly. The ones who had been suffering the worst beating went streaking off into the woods howling, while the few remaining decided they didn't feel like sticking around either. Garmadon fell back and watched with amazement as the last of the dark forms whisked away into the jungle.

Involuntarily, he smiled a little. He was under no delusions about the Rafture's motives—he knew it was just protecting itself and its son. Still, this protection conveniently extended to him—and he probably wouldn't have had it, if the Rafture father had still been crippled in one wing. As the old chestnut goes, no good deed ever goes unpunished.

"Many thanks, sir," he remarked jokingly to the Rafture. "We're going to become the best of friends soon, aren't we?"

He received a querulous squawk in response.

* * *

Morning broke, tinting the ocean a dull gold and the jungle a rich green. The just and the unjust alike began to stir, readying for the day ahead. Lloyd yawned, blinking groggily. He'd had only the scantiest of naps, but it still worked wonders. He felt ready for anything that could possibly lie ahead.

"Sleep well, old chum?" smirked Pythor. Lloyd huffed and paid him no mind; he was busy watching the falcon, which had transferred back to Pythor's shoulder just before he woke. The bird of prey preened itself off-handedly, seemingly lost in its own little world. Without warning, it flung its wings out wide and hurled itself off the side of the Mech Dragon, disappearing from view. Before Lloyd could even begin to worry, it suddenly swooped back upwards, soaring gracefully higher and higher. Lloyd watched, transfixed, even as it passed blindingly before the rising sun. His arms were still bound painfully tight, and Pythor and Tech Wu were murmuring something sinister-sounding nearby, but he didn't even notice. Just for this one moment, he felt his heart soar as free as the falcon.

Meanwhile, miles and miles away, the Rafture father was gingerly flexing his gigantic wings, faster and faster, slowly re-learning the motions of flight. The youngling fluttered chaotic circles around his head, yelping encouragement, and Garmadon nursed his own injuries and looked on, trying to hide his elation with occasional ironic comments.

Yup . . . seemed like half the world was raring and ready to fly.


End file.
